Delirium
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Han comes down with a fever. Leia keeps him awake to keep him alive. Mon Mothma and Rieekan gossip. H/L / Hoth ESB time period.
1. sleep murderer

_a/n: this is a very short story. only four chapters, and four very short ones. set on Hoth._

* * *

 _"sleep death"_

* * *

Inside the antechamber of a hermetically sealed room, Leia stared through the glass at a single treatment bed, occupied by one man.

"What is it?" she asked quietly.

Her shoulder ached. She folded her arms and grasped at it, rubbing the strained muscle - she shouldn't have tried to catch him, but he'd gashed his temple so badly -

The medic next to her cleared his throat.

"Sweat Fever," he answered simply.

Leia cringed.

The medic crossed his arms, his sterile scrubs rustling. He was the only one left monitoring Han after the chaos had died down; after Han had been stabilized. He glanced at the woman next to him, and then over her shoulder at General Rieekan.

"There isn't any risk of outbreak within the ranks," he said. "It's only communicable in respiration within the first sixty hours. Once a patient is symptomatic, the contagion subsides."

Rieekan grunted. He jerked his chin.

"What about Chewbacca?" he asked.

Leia pressed her palm urgently into her shoulder, still massaging the ache.

"Hmm. Pathogenic in humans. No other species," he answered.

She tilted her head to the side, looking at Han. He was just back from a supply run - an unusually successful one - she'd been sitting with him in the cockpit, arguing lightly about nothing. He hadn't seemed himself - he hadn't seemed ill, either; a little listless, perhaps, and nothing more, until he pitched forward, unconscious, his forehead crashing against some of the controls as he slumped forward - and alarmed, Leia tried to grab him before he hit the floor - only then feeling how - unbelievably _hot_ his skin was.

"Biological attack?" Rieekan muttered, his expression sharp, wary. "Could he have been contaminated, as a means for someone to ensure he brought it back? Wreaked havoc on us?"

Again, the medic demurred.

"Unlikely," he advised. "The virulence isn't an effective weapon. It would be disruptive - if everyone were to catch it," he muttered,"but Solo isn't going to spread it, not now. Contagion's diminished," he said again, and then glanced at Leia with deference. "You weren't on the run with him, Your Highness?"

She shook her head, focused ahead. The medic nodded.

"Even the Princess isn't at risk of contraction."

Leia closed her eyes.

She tucked her shoulder closer to herself, felt Rieekan's eyes on her. Her fingers brushed tensely at the white material, stained with coppery, drying blood - she'd wiped her hands on her shoulder when she tended to his cut brow while she waited for Chewbacca's help - Han's fever was so high, his skin burned through her snow suit - she still felt it.

The medic snorted, his tone derisive:

"If it was a targeted attack, it was poorly executed. Sweat Fever is brutal - but tricky. It ought to be weaponized in densely populated areas, if it's going to be used that way," he extended his palm thoughtfully, gesturing at Han. "If all they succeed in is killing him, it won't even disrupt our supply lines with significance."

Rieekan shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Leia. Her eyes were fixed on the medic's profile, cold, and piercing.

"I am sure Captain Solo would appreciate the depth of gratitude you have for his services," she said icily.

The medic bowed his head.

"One would think a medical professional would look upon a patient's potential mortality with more solemnity."

"I am sorry, Princess. I was - "

"Callous."

"Leia," murmured Rieekan. "You're still shaken."

She lifted her chin, and turned her head back, fixing her eyes on the glass again -

"No need to soften my disposition for him, Carlist," she said quietly, her fingers flicking vaguely in the medics direction. "The rank and file consider me a bitch regardless. May as well be for good reason, this once."

Rieekan closed his mouth, and arched a brow, looking at the medic without saying another word. The medic flushed, and cleared his throat uncertainly.

"Will it kill him?" Leia asked.

There was silence around her, and she suddenly felt like screaming. The medic hesitated for too long.

"Well," he began. "Was he struck suddenly, or gradually?"

"Suddenly," Leia said shortly. "He lost consciousness unexpectedly. Hit his head. He was fine all morning, if a little subdued."

"Yes," agreed the medic. "You were with him - how long, before that?"

Leia was silent for a moment.

"A few hours."

"Any strenuous physical activity prior to - onset?" the medic asked.

She blinked.

She heard - _heard_ \- Carlist whip his head sharply at the medic, his brow darkening.

"Lieutenant," he snapped. "Is _that_ relevant?"

 _Why are you angry, Carlist?_ she thought to herself - _you don't want to hear whether the rumors are true? Or is it his presumption and lack of tact?_

"The specifics of Sweat Fever onset often determine the strain, and without advanced titre testing here - "

"If you consider the way Captain Solo runs his overactive mouth to be strenuous physical activity," Leia interrupted mildly, choosing not to let it go any further. She paused for a moment, and shook her head. "No. He had a headache."

The medic sighed after a moment.

"If it was sudden onset, not triggered by exertion, with a fever as high as his was when he we stabilized him," he hesitated, "then he is not in good shape," he admitted finally. "The slow acting strain is less virulent and fatal only in small children, or the elderly - the aggressive strain," he hesitated again.

"Will kill him?" Leia asked.

"Not necessarily," the medic said, turning to her. "He needs to stay awake. His fever needs to be kept below the critical damage threshold throughout the night," he said. "If he makes it through the next twelve hours, he'll recover."

Leia turned her head slightly, her eyes cast down, listening to the prognosis without looking at the medic.

"There is a reason Sweat Fever is sometimes called sleep death," he said flatly. "It kills in sleep."

Leia said nothing for a long time, while Carlist watched her. She reached out and touched fingertips to the glass.

"He's asleep now, Lieutenant," she said, dangerously quiet.

The medic shook his head.

"We put him under to protect him from meningitis while we flushed him with bacta and brought his fever down. It's an induced sleep. When he wakes up, we'll keep him awake, and manage his suffering."

 _Suf-er-ing_ \- her lips formed the words silently. She watched Chewie, standing vigil by the bed, a forlorn expression on his face. He had sprung into action quick enough when Leia screamed for him from the cockpit, but since the handful of medics had slipped away, he looked increasingly somber - Leia wondered if he had ever seen Han so sick.

"There's nothing else that can be done?" Leia asked curtly.

"Fluids. Supportive care - Sweat Fever is viral, Your Highness. It takes its course."

Leia nodded. She lowered her hands, and twisted them together in front of her.

"I'll help keep him awake," she said firmly.

"You will _not_ ," the medic's objection was sharp, and unexpected - Leia was taken aback both by the firmness of it, and that he'd spoken to her so forcefully.

In a brief moment of indignation, she glanced at Carlist - uncharacteristic of her as it was, she thought - _did you hear how he just spoke to me?_

 _"_ I believe you stated there is no risk of infection," Leia remarked coolly.

"No _respiratory_ risk, any longer," the medic said. "Prolonged skin-to-skin contact with his sweat could put you at risk - "

"I suppose I'll keep my hands to myself, then," Leia interrupted tightly, "though that is the second comment you have made, Lieutenant Mar, whether it be inadvertent, or deliberate, implying that I have a physical relationship with Captain Solo, and I am beginning to believe you wish to spread tales back to your colleagues."

Rieekan cleared his throat.

"You should not put yourself at unnecessary risk, Princess," he said diplomatically.

"That is all I meant," the medic said under his breath.

Leia gestured to her shoulder.

"He bled on me. I touched his blood," she said. She shrugged. "I won't catch it," she added, turning to Carlist, "will I?"

Rieekan looked back at her thoughtfully, well aware of what she was asking him to confirm - never had he, nor any other Alderaanian, known Leia Organa to come down with something - not a day in her young life. He lifted his head, peering over her shoulder at the medic.

"She won't," he allowed. "She doesn't get sick."

She brushed her hands on her sides, and then tugged at her sleeves, shoving them up her forearms - she'd wear gloves, if that was expected of her - but she would not stand by and watch from behind glass while Chewbacca kept a lonely watch; she would not go about her business elsewhere when Han had - picked this virus up on a mission that arose from her personal directive.

Stepping to the side to take a light, sterile cloak from a hook on the antechamber wall, she slid into it, her eyes falling on the medic boldly.

"You ought to alert the base," she informed him, mild and acerbic all at once. "I'm spending the night with Captain Solo."

* * *

 _at least half of why i wrote this is because i have nightmares about getting sweating sickness. of which there hasn't been a case since 1644. this is a fictionalized version of that._

 _-alexandra_

 _story #365_


	2. fever rage

_a/n: thanks, thanks for being interested! this short story is ... really an effort in dialogue, because usually it's my 'thing' to have the long introspective narrative paragraphs._

* * *

 _"fever rage"_

* * *

It was as the medic said; there was nothing to be done, other than be there - and let the fever rage.

Leia knew that one-oh-ten was a life-threatening number; it was there that Han's fever peaked; it spiked, yanked him out of his induced sleep, strangled whatever strength he had left, drained him, made him shake, and toss, and turn - and the nurse, at Leia's side, who kept checking on Han intermittently, keeping him hydrated, looked grim, as if she'd accepted defeat - until the number dropped, after an hour, dwindled down to a cooler, but still dangerous one-oh-eight - and left Han still miserable, wracked by muscle aches and nausea, barely aware of his surroundings.

Delirious.

"The drop in temperature is a good sign," a nurse noted quietly. She checked the time. "Try not to let him fall asleep."

There was no guarantee that it would kill him in his sleep, but it had evidently happened enough in past cases that the pathology of Sweat Fever was steeped in medical suspicion - and amidst the coming and going of medical personnel to check on his vitals and administer secondary care, Leia sat with him - and Chewbacca watched over.

Han sprawled on his stomach, occasionally raking his hand through his hair, murmuring to himself. He talked mostly in his native tongue; when he fell silent, he groaned softly, even whimpered, turning his face into the sheets. His breathing was labored, at times; lips chapped.

Leia's fingers brushed over his brow, where the gash he'd given himself when he passed out was sterilized, and taped up neatly - his skin was so hot, and so sickeningly clammy; he felt the chalky-rubber feel of her latex glove and shrank away from it, shaking his head. When he seemed to drift off -

Chewbacca leaned forward and nudged him, running his huge paw over Han's sweaty hair, and Han griped at him, swearing incoherently.

"Leave - me - 'lone."

Chewbacca growled, quipping something at him mildly. His lips drew back, and Leia watched, so unfamiliar with his language; struggling to understand.

 _[He will make it, Princess. He's strong.]_

She understood the sentiment, if not the words, and her hand moved to Han's shoulder, gripping him tightly, her palm pressed into his bicep.

"You aren't to fall asleep, Han," she said firmly. _"Han_."

He twisted away from her weakly, but sort of nodded. His eyes fluttered sometimes, but mostly remained closed, and though she hid it well, Leia suffered from bouts of extreme panic, imagining losing him - _if he died_ -

She gripped his arm tighter.

Han covered his face, scratching his neck, and Leia picked up an ice pack, moving his hand firmly and placing the cool compress on his skin - the fever was giving him a rash, and he kept clawing at it.

"Ma," Han muttered tensely. His jaw tightened, and he relaxed a little at feel of the ice pack. "Ma," he insisted.

Leia pursed her lips, studying him closer.

"Mom," Han repeated. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Leia looked up at Chewbacca, and Chewie frowned deeply. Leia's heart twisted painfully - so sick, and asking for his mother; it seemed natural, but there was nothing she could do about it.

"Han," she said gently, running the ice pack over his skin. "You're on Hoth. Your mother isn't here."

Han muttered something in Corellian. He tossed his head.

"Yeah," he said, delirious. "She died. Long...long time ago."

"Yes," Leia agreed softly.

He didn't seem to understand where he was, or what he was saying. Leia moved a little closer, picking up another ice pack - she handed it to Chewie, her teeth scraping her lip -

"Miss 'er, though," Han mumbled hoarsely. "Ma," he said gruffly.

His voice cracked, and Leia let her hand drift back to his face. Again, he jerked away from the feel of the glove, and this time, without hesitating, she brought her hand to her mouth, pierced the edge of the latex with her teeth, and snapped it off her hand, flexing her fingers before reaching out to give him a more natural, closer touch.

"I know," Leia murmured softly.

She rested on her arms on the bed next to him, her face closer to him than it should be.

"I know, Han," she whispered. "I miss my mother, too."

Han groaned, furrowing his brow. Chewbacca leaned over worriedly.

 _[Don't get so close to him, Princess.]_

Leia ignored the warning - she understood from the tone that it was a warning. Han tossed his head a few more times, then calmed down some, his shakes easing up a little. He relaxed a bit, and closed his eyes - Leia moved the ice down his back some, shocking him.

 _"No,"_ she snapped loudly. "Wake up."

Han's eyes flew open. He stared at her, unfocused.

"You're hurting me," he barked, the words slurring.

Chewie laughed, offering a teasing remark. Han ignored him.

"It's only ice," Leia retorted, pressing it into him to soothe him, and chase away drowsiness.

"Stop," Han ordered, grimacing again. He turned his head away, shaking it heavily. "Briii-ha," he ground out, through grit teeth. He shook Leia's hands off of him, his jaw tightening again.

He seemed to be - in the constant throe of waking nightmares.

"Bria," Leia repeated softly, with working familiarity. "No," she corrected, though she didn't offer her own name.

"Yes, _her_ ," Han said, incoherent again. " _Her_ , Bria, it hurt - "

 _[Han, she's dead. She's dead, and you're calling the wrong woman her name.]_ \- Chewbacca's growl was too complex for Leia, but he seemed angry.

Leia sat back a little, watching Chewie apply more ice, smoothing the cold water over Han's neck, and his exposed, taut shoulders - Han kept trying to twist away, thrashing his head - Leia folded her arms, her eyes stinging as she watched - it wasn't so much another woman's name, on his lips; there was nothing between her and Han - but it was the pain in his voice, over his mother, over this other girl -

"She hurt, Chewie," Han muttered roughly. " _Broken_."

 _[I know, cub. It's been over for years.]_

Han shook his head; Leia watched.

"Doesn't matter," Han went on feverishly. "Leia," he said.

Leia lifted her eyes, watching him uncertainly - what had they been doing, before this; before he decided to flirt with death? Not just light banter and arguing in the cockpit, hours before that - Dejarik, because games of strategy distracted her; before that, inventory, when he'd first arrived back - she spent so much time with him, and she hated the rumors because she hated that they weren't true.

She was tempted to hate him right now, for saying her name second -

"Leia hurts too," Han mumbled.

 _[The princess is here; perhaps you should shut up.]_ \- Chewbacca muttered.

Leia tilted her head, her eyes on the Wookiee for a moment. He looked back at her warily, forlorn, almost, and watchful.

"What does he mean?" she asked softly.

 _[He's delirious.]_

She understood Chewbacca's response in tone only - a dismissal of the words as the effects of the malady.

"Leia," Han said, his voice soft, strained.

 _[Cub,]_ Chewie warned gently. _[Cub.]_

"Yeah," Han snapped. "Yeah, yeah," as if he'd had this conversation with Chewbacca a thousand times, and he was tired of the Wookiee's input – "she is, _she is_ , gonna be just as bad, worse - she'd hurt worse than," he sighed harshly – "Bria."

Leia avoided looking at Chewbacca – instead she looked to the side, compressing her lips. Her shoulder ached, and she reached up to touch it, her fingertips moving over the stained material again – Han thought she'd hurt him? He was the one in the perfect position to destroy her –

"Not good 'nuff, that's the problem," Han muttered.

Leia bit her lip, sitting forward. Her fingertips went for Han's brow.

"That's not it," she whispered.

Han's skin twitched under her touch. He groaned softly, frowning.

"Fuck," he swore weakly. "Make it stop."

She pressed her palm to his forehead. The heat under his skin radiated, and she caught her breath, moving closer – she took them to heart, his ramblings, but ignored them as well – things he must struggle with, deep down, that were made sore and vulnerable by the fever – things to be fleshed out later.

Han's breathing evened a little, turned shallow, and then sleepy.

"'M tired," he mumbled. "Lemme – lemme sleep."

"No," Leia murmured.

Han yanked away.

"Sleep," he repeated.

Leia stood and sat down on the bed next to him, raking her hand through his hair and leaning down close.

" _No_ ," she commanded in his ear. "You get through this, Han, you _get over it_ ," she ordered – "We have a life to live," she snapped, quiet, and ferocious – "we have – we have," tears sprang to her eyes – "Han, we have a – romance, we have – an affair to have, if we just, just – " she grit her teeth – "if we got over ourselves, and _if you don't go to sleep_."

Han mumbled under his breath, his breathing still unnatural. Leia swallowed hard, loosening her touch in his hair, stroking it back gently.

She scraped her lower lip, her lashes trembling.

"I won't hurt you," she promised, leaning over him again – recklessly, she touched her lips to the back of his neck, her nose in his damp - tangled hair. "Sweetheart," she mumbled, bitterly, almost teasingly, "you're the one who is going to hurt me."

Chewbacca watched, his expression solemn – thoughtful – Han calmed under the touch, awake – listening, or lost in a haze; either was possible.

"Chewie," Han grumbled. "Leia's…" he slurred hazily, "she likes me she's...jus' mean about it. Dunno why she's mean. Don't like it. Hurts."

Chewbacca tilted his head, his eyes catching Leia's as she turned her head slightly.

 _[He won't remember this.]_

It was a promise, or a warning – she wasn't sure which she wanted it to be. Han's shoulders tightened with muscle spasms again, and Leia slipped her hand into his, holding tightly, and pressing her cheek against his back – she held on, as tight as she could, and Han squeezed back, whether he understood his surroundings or not. His grip loosened, breathing slowed – and she turned her head sharply, sinking her teeth into his shoulder to chase away the drowsiness.

She sat up straight, shocked at herself, turning wide eyes on Chewbacca – Han gave a protracted, offended moan, like a wounded animal – Chewbacca looked back at her in soft amusement –

"Don't tell him I bit him," she requested huskily, turning her eyes back on Han – her voice trembled, and she glared at him, her lips salty, and hot with his skin –

"Han – stay awake. Stay – with me."

* * *

 _-alexandra_


	3. high stakes

_a/n: who doesn't enjoy a good cup of kaffe, some propaganda, and work place gossip?_

* * *

 _"high stakes"_

* * *

Tucked away in a secure communications room, his attention mostly occupied by the infrared holo projection, Rieekan glanced at his colleague out of the corner of his eye, anticipating her reaction.

"She's where?"

Mon Mothma's tone was skeptical; she paused, with a paper cup of kaffe clutched in both hands, giving the general a piercing look. Rieekan shifted, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back in his chair - and nodded slowly, confirming what he had just said.

He put his palm on his knee, tapping the edge of his boot with his other hand, and shrugged.

"Med commander said she hasn't left," he said gruffly. He lifted his wrist, and checked his chrono. "S'been fourteen hours, now," he said. "So, Solo's not gonna die. He's been delirious all night."

Mon Mothma slowly raised her cup the rest of the way, resuming her drink. Thoughtfully, she lowered it just as slowly, setting it on the table, and turning, silent, to watch the recording they were viewing - footage, given to them by spies; raw proof of Imperial atrocities on primitive systems' propaganda useful for Rebel recruitment - in this case, useful in its veracity.

"I can't imagine he would have," Mon Mothma murmured.

Rieekan arched a brow, glancing over at her.

"You think death's afraid of Han Solo?"

"Not as much as Han Solo would abhor the thought of his last act in front of the Princess being a rather spectacular fainting spell," Mon Mothma quipped.

Rieekan grinned, turning back to the projection.

She curled her palms around her kaffe cup.

"I heard that he broke his nose on her boot," she remarked.

Rieekan snorted, clicking his tongue.

"Rumors fly faster around this base than ships fly through hyperspace," he griped, good-natured. "Though I am surprised to see the day you indulge in them, Ma'am."

"I'm rather not old enough to be called ma'am."

"Military habit."

Mon Mothma smiled, and leaned forward, her shoulders hunching. Her brows furrowed tensely.

"Should she have been allowed in the sick room? If this rebellion loses Leia - "

"She doesn't get sick," Rieekan said flatly. "The medic warned her appropriately."

"Perhaps you should have prevented it."

"I'm one of her citizens," Rieekan snorted. "I have no authority over a princess of Alderaan."

Mon Mothma sighed uncertainly.

"We all did make a particular promise to her father, in regards to keeping her safe."

"Well," Rieekan drawled bluntly, "I can't shoot microbes, and 'm more obliged to the idea of standin' between Her Highness and a bullet than between her and Han Solo."

Mon Mothma lifted her cup again.

"You think it is that serious?" she murmured, tipping the kaffe to her lips. "Are the rumors true?"

"Lieutenant Mar," Rieekan snorted, "the medic? Stood there and damn near asked her if she was sleeping with Solo," he said. "If she'd been _with_ him when he got sick. _Asked_ her that, little Princess Leia," he said, in disbelief, "the girl I've been bowing to since she was _two_."

"He did not."

"He did, and I swear, I felt the ghost of the Viceroy breathin' down my neck, glaring at me," Rieekan laughed a little sheepishly, "like, _goddamnit, Carlist, allowing her the Rebellion was supposed to keep her from rebelling_ like that."

Mon Mothma swallowed hard, clicking her tongue softly, the cup held loosely in her hands.

"I can't imagine what's gotten into her," she remarked.

Rieekan shrugged, arching a brow.

"She's in love with him," he said simply.

"Yes, I'm aware," Mon said mildly, "the base is aware - in fact, I presume if you asked Darth Vader, he'd agree he'd heard a rumor that Princess Leia has decided to shock absolutely no one and fall in love with the likes of Han Solo."

"Shock no one, huh?" Rieekan asked skeptically. "You're _not_ shocked?"

Mon Mothma looked a bit prim.

"He complements her perfectly," she said astutely. "As it were, Bail used to complain that she was going to run off with someone entirely unsuitable. 'Do you know who will succeed me as Viceroy, Mon? Some rockstar. With a nose ring, no doubt. And tattoos.'" she quoted, smiling a little sadly at the memory of her old friend - _it's the Skywalker passions in her and it's going to give me a heart attack_ \- he would gripe.

"Solo doesn't have a nose ring," Rieekan noted.

"Perhaps he has tattoos."

Rieekan snorted.

"And here we sit, gossiping about her like everyone else," he muttered, his tone darkening uncomfortably.

Mon Mothma sighed, setting her cup down. She turned it slowly in a circle, watching the kaffe within tremble a little. She lifted her chin, her lips pursed thoughtfully.

"This is such a perilous time," she said quietly. "We've taken so many hits, become so fragmented - we need Leia's leadership and Leia's...strength," she sighed heavily. "Without distraction. She's young. He's not. And love can be…damaging. What with all she's already been through," Mon Mothma shook her head again. "For all the joking, and betting on fate – perhaps it isn't a good idea."

Rieekan shifted thoughtfully, his focus on the projection again – infrared terrors, delivered to them, conducted by the Empire – terrors not as final, but just as brutal, as what had happened to his own home.

"May I be forward, Carlist?"

He nodded.

"Have you ever had an affair?"

"I had a marriage."

"Hmm. What I mean is, something the likes of which is…unconventional to your station, or high stakes, considering your position," Mon clarified.

"No."

"I have," Mon said simply. "Things can get messy. Leading…can become – impossible. It's just," she paused, then chose that word again – "It can be damaging. And she's still so young."

Rieekan sighed.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly. He shrugged. "But what's the damage done if she _doesn't_ have something?" he asked. "Something besides," he gestured at the scene before them, and then all around the bunker they were holed up in – the cold chill of it, the clinical transience. "This fight."

He shook his head tensely.

"I don't think we can ask her not to love," he said shortly, "or even imply that we don't approve."

Mon Mothma was at her kaffe again.

"Approve," she quoted. "Do we?"

Rieekan looked at her.

"Do _you_?"

Both of them were silent, looking at each other. Rieekan rubbed the heel of his hand against his knee, frowning thoughtfully, and she just looked back at him. Her silence seemed like an obvious answer, but he sensed that she didn't answer, because despite her instinctive disapproval, the galaxy as they all knew it was in flux, and old rules were dead rules.

"I do not think Han Solo is a bad man," Mon Mothma said finally. She tapped the table with her fingertips. "I do not think Leia is his nursemaid, either," she said, more narrowly – "and I do not want to see him be her downfall."

Rieekan unfolded his legs, giving a slow shake of his head and a low whistle. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and grit his teeth, dismissing Mon Mothma's concerns there.

"Mon, he's been working for free for more than a year now," he admitted flatly. "He never accepted the bounty for her rescue." He paused, looking down at his palm, at the lines there, and furrowing his brow. "I don't know what's going on between those two, or what's going to happen – but it's not damnation."

Rieekan frowned, thinking of the maddening, public push-and-pull of Han and Leia's relationship, the indescribably way in which they both seemed to obviously be aware of what was happening between them without – it happening.

"Anything ever happens between those two, Mon," Rieekan said firmly, "and you mark my words, it won't have a downfall. For her, _or_ for him. It won't have an _end_ at all."

Mon Mothma took a deep breath.

"Romantic diatribe you had there, Carlist. Makes me feel like a girl again.," she murmured, and then held out her hand indignantly: "Well, for goodness sake, when the hell are they going to do something about it?" she demanded, leaning back in her own chair.

She sighed.

Rieekan shook his head.

"Figure it depends," he muttered gruffly.

"On what?"

Rieekan turned his head, rubbing his jaw, his knuckles grazing his neck - on the risk Princess Leia took on for her soul, sitting up all night with him, when he wasn't himself, and wasn't in control - the things that might be said were just ... so high stakes.

"On," Rieekan said, wary: "delirium."

* * *

 _a different Mon Mothma than i usually write, eh?_

 _-alexandra_


	4. breaking point

_a/n: and, the shocking conclusion [it's not shocking]._

* * *

 _"breaking point"_

* * *

The alarming rage with which Sweat Fever incapacitated its victims was matched only by how swiftly it vanished.

It was not even a handful of hours after he weathered the worst of it that Han was well enough to complain about the intravenous drip in his arm, and the medical mandate that he had to stay in bed for the time being. Despite a nurse's insistence that he was not physically as strong as he felt, he complained about being held prisoner - as he defined it - and ignored Chewbacca's stern arguments insisting he _only_ felt good compared to how wrecked he had been less than ten hours ago.

 _[You are still sick.]_

"'M fine!"

 _[You look like a corpse.]_

Han scowled at him, pretending he didn't have an exhausting headache - his muscles ached as if he'd run a marathon, but he figured if he'd had Sweat Fever, he must have been shaking and convulsing all night. He didn't remember - he wasn't sure what damn day it was, and he was vaguely irritated by the dry rash that was still marking his neck and shoulders. He kept reaching up to clutch at a spot just behind his shoulder, massaging it absently.

He stared at the unoccupied chair that had been drawn up beside the treatment bed, his brow furrowed darkly. He was still perplexed - it had been slept in, clearly; damn near lived in - there was a wrinkled blanket, a comlink, and a protein bar wrapper -

"Whose stuff's that?" Han asked gruffly.

Chewbacca, still standing at the foot of his bed, an obnoxious sentry aiding the medics in keeping him hostage, lifted his chin.

 _[The Princess',]_ he answered. _[She was with you when you lost consciousness.]_

Han reached up to touch his the wound on his brow, and winced at the tenderness. He poked it a few times gingerly, then lowered his hand to his shoulder again, rubbing a spot there that kept - bugging him, catching his attention.

 _[She kept you awake,]_ Chewbacca advised. _[She was here all night.]_

"Yeah?" Han asked, his brow furrowing. "She...how'd she - ?"

 _[Yelling at you, mostly,]_ Chewbacca offered mildly.

Han closed his mouth in a tight grimace - he'd never had Sweat Fever before, but he was pretty sure a big part of it was gettin' a fever so high it set your senses on fire, gave you nightmares and day terrors and everything in between, made a mess of thoughts and self-restraint. His lips turned down sharply at the corner and he narrowed his eyes, wracking his head for memories of last night - he was at a loss. The last thing he remembered ... he wasn't even sure what he remembered.

He looked back at his friend.

"C'mon, pal - was I out of it?" he asked, muttering under his breath. "What'd I say to her? About her?"

Chewbacca blinked slowly.

 _[For the most part, you cried for your mother.]_

Han looked taken aback, and a little angry. He flushed.

"S'not funny, Chewie," he snapped tersely. He gestured at Leia's empty chair. "What'd I do?"

 _[Nothing.]_

"Then where's she - "

He broke off, fumbling whatever he'd been about to say into silence, as Leia entered the room. She moved silently, and gracefully, a bottle of water tucked under her arm, and a carton of fresh juice in her hand. Without a word, she came forward, set the juice on the table next to him, and then sat down on the edge of the bed by his feet. She drew one leg up, and angled it with her foot pressed against her thigh, twisting the cap on the water bottle - twisting, and untwisting, without opening.

"I _was_ here when you woke up," she said quietly, "after the fever went down," she added. "I left so I'd be out of their way."

Han squinted at her, his shoulders relaxing some. He lowered his hands to his lap, then tensed slightly, and reached up to rub his collarbone.

 _[Don't scratch.]_

"Quit," Han griped at Chewie, "motherin' me."

Chewbacca turned his head away at the choice of words, and Leia lifted hers, her fingers still moving over the cap of the water bottle. She was unreadable, thoughtful - Han noticed her white snowsuit had grime and blood on the shoulder, and he lifted his hand, pointing at it, before gesturing to his forehead.

"That mine?"

She nodded.

"Kinda remember that," he drawled.

Leia rolled her shoulder back, wincing.

"I tried to catch you," she said.

Han grinned at her.

"You beein tryin' to catch me for years now, Your Worship," he quipped.

She tilted her head at him a little, her expression unchanging. Her lips turned up a bit at the corners, and she flicked her eyes down with the barest hint of a laugh.

"Sweat Fever," Han scoffed loudly. "Of all the damn - let's hear it, Princess," he said grudgingly, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. He made a show of sighing in defeat, and frowned, shaking his head. "What'd I say when I was delirious? S'what happens, right?" he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "I say anything weird?"

Leia lifted her head, gazing at him intently. It wasn't - that she didn't want to tell him; it was that she didn't know how. She didn't understand what had happened last night - or rather, she did; she just didn't know how to translate it into the daylight hours, when he was well, and she was free of the very different delirium that had overtaken her and made her bold, and unapologetic, and daring, while he wallowed in his febrile delusions.

She didn't see it as fair to divulge - sensitive things, even if they were her sensitivities, when it wasn't _trusting_ intimacy that had exposed them, but the cruel vulnerability of an illness. She had few doubts that, had it been her in the throes of a fever, she would have said things that mortified her – she didn't want to put Han on the spot now.

"You said you think I'm mean to you," Leia remarked mildly.

Han smirked.

"You _are_ mean to me," he retorted, deadpan.

Leia's shoulder ached, and she reached up to rub at it, giving him a half smile – it was such a shallow way to put the things he'd said, but he'd given her so much perspective – he didn't think she was mean, he thought she was going to break his heart, which Leia supposed was a valid enough fear – she thought the same of him.

Han tilted his head.

"You stayed up with me all night? Kept me awake?"

Leia nodded.

"I told you I could go all night."

She bit her lip, bursting into a smile, and lifted her head, her arm still draped across her shoulder.

"You were sweaty and moaning, too," she joked quietly.

"Why'd you do it?"

"It was heavily implied you would die if you were allowed to fall asleep."

"Yeah, c'mon, Leia, answer the question I _asked_ ," Han retorted swiftly, his gaze sharp, and intent, "'m not a constituent. I know deflection when I see it."

Her brows lifted slightly. Her hands stilled in her lap.

"Well, Han," she began calmly, "I did not want to see you die."

He stared at her contently. Behind her, Chewbacca tilted his head, look at Han – and then turned, pacing away briefly. Han noticed the movement, and narrowed his eyes again, looking back at Leia. He kept reaching up to scratch a spot on his shoulder – the back of his shoulder – and Leia blushed. Han, juxtaposing that blush with Chewbacca's edginess, tightened his jaw.

"I said somethin', didn't I?" he asked gruffly, his face falling grimly. "Bad?"

"No," she said, her eyes on him honestly – but she wondered what he thought he'd said; what he was imagining himself saying.

Different, she suspected, from what had actually come out – how much he missed his mother, how badly some other girl had broken his heart, how wary he was that it was going to happen again, at her hands – why had she made such a – gendered assumption, that she was the only one who could get hurt in a relationship with him; why had she thought the mercurial nature of Han's part in all their grand flirtations was as shallow masculinity, instead of a deep fear of pain that matched her own?

He rubbed his shoulder again, and Leia bowed her head, rolling her eyes a little.

"Here's something," she said boldly, looking back up at him. "I bit you."

" _What?"_

"There," she nodded at his hand, how he kept absently reaching up to touch the spot. "You were falling asleep. I bit you. To keep you awake."

Han stared at her, and Chewie paced back, giving Han a wry look - and a shrug, and a nod: [ _She did,]_ he rumbled, _[I witnessed it.]_

" _Kriff_ , Leia," Han whined, "why'd you have to do it when I couldn't enjoy it?"

She laughed a little, her face flushing again.

"Lieutenant Mar asked if we were having sex when you came down with it," she told him.

Han blinked.

"Were we?" he drawled, deadpan.

Leia's eyes inexplicably burned with tears, and she returned his solemn look.

"Of course. We're always having sex. Haven't you heard?"

"Oh, right," Han agreed breezily.

He fell silent, and smirked. Turning his head, he tried to angle it so he could see the back of his shoulder, maybe see some teeth marks – indentations of Leia's teeth; _right there in his skin_ , the way he wished they'd be in his dreams. The times he'd fantasized about driving her to dig her nails and teeth into him, wrap herself up in him –

His head swiveled around sharply, suddenly, an echo of hazy words becoming clear.

"You called me _sweetheart_."

Her breath caught, and she winced, glancing up through her lashes. She blushed, compressed her lips, and then shrugged.

"You'll have a difficult time proving it," she retorted.

"Why'd you call me that?"

Her eyes on him were incredulous.

"Why do _you_ call _me_ sweetheart?" she demanded.

He gave her a little half smile.

"Sweetheart," he obliged wryly. "Why'd you want me to live so bad?"

Leia sat forward, her lips pursed.

"I told you," she admitted huskily. "We have a life to live."

He didn't remember her saying that, but somehow, he knew it wasn't all she said – and it wasn't all she was trying to say. He leaned back slowly, his shoulders falling, and he stared at her for a long time, eyes on hers without a word, attempting to read last night's delirium in the depths there.

He reached up, and touched the wound on his brow, pressing his fingertips into the soreness again; his eyes drifted closed uncertainly, heavily, and then he looked back at her critically, trying to decipher the lost hours, to remember something other than the aching heat of the fever.

"You and I have a life to live?" he asked.

" _Yes_ ," Leia said, her breath rushing out helplessly.

Han jutted his hand out between them.

"How long's it gonna go on like _this_?" he demanded, frustrated, his eyes blazing. "When's the breaking point?"

She raised her shoulders roughly, her lips pursed, voice raw –

"I don't know, Han," she gasped, words trembling – he wanted more from her, and she, even in her understanding of why, now, was still too fragile to take the reigns – "I guess when we're both delirious with it."

* * *

 _the end_

* * *

 _-alexandra_


End file.
